


Blue Notebooks

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five notebooks that saved James's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The bag looked half-empty. James packed what he claimed were the essentials: compass, map, clothes, sleeping bag, blades, knives, extra ammo, binoculars, flashlight with extra batteries and bulb, waterproof fire starting kit, glasses, sunscreen, small towels, lip balm, a small notebook and two pens. But in comparison with the other hunting trips James packed for, the bag lacked considerably in size and items. It wasn't enough for a trip all the way not to Alaska, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Texas, Nebraska or Wyoming, but clear off the continent, far away from the areas Lars knew. Far away from home.

"I need a challenge," James reasoned last night. "We've been through this already. I've already hunted all over the Rockies, the Midwest and the South. I need something else."

"Why not Canada?"

"Already done it too. The guys and I went to Alaska for those two weeks, remember? I brought home some good bear meat and salmon."

James stood naked in front of the dresser, fresh from shower. Lars watched him from the bed, hands twisted in the blue sheets wrinkled in his lap. 

"What's the difference between Canada's bears and Russia's?"

"Nothing but the location and the fun." James fished through the drawer for underwear and his favorite pair of pajama pants. "You don't need to worry. My buddy's done this trip before and his wife was totally fine with it. He came back in one piece."

He smelled the lie on James like usual, but Lars stayed quiet. In the years James left for hunting trips, Lars avoided arguments the night before a departure. He didn't want to break the streak when the location freaked him out worse than the others did. 

The bed dipped besides him. James wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Seriously. Stop thinking about it. Go to sleep."

Lars nodded. He closed his eyes as James's lips kissed his temple. 

He opened them again. The bag sat at the edge of the bed, right in front of him. James's voice fluttered up the steps from downstairs, excited and boyish as he spoke on the phone with his hunting partner. 

Tradition worked hand-in-hand with superstition. Lars never escorted James to the airport; James never asked Lars to come. If either of them broke away from customs now, who knew what would happen. 

Lars stared at the bag. James swore he knew what he was doing. He always planned the trips and packed for them alone. That was James's domain, something to escape into, far away from the world. Lars understood that. Art was his. 

James's robe hung heavy on his shoulders, the sash unraveled. His hands twitched at his sides, arms taut with anxiety. 

This wasn't like the other trips. It was far away, too far away from home, and the bag was too small, too empty. Lars knew he needed more. 

The bag overflowed with all the items Lars stuffed inside: extra food -- all James's favorites, extra water, extra batteries, extra clothes, pencils and pens. There wasn't much room left for the extra notebooks Lars wanted to pack. Maybe five was overkill, since the trip lasted only a week; but who knew if James came up with lots of ideas for lyrics, stories, or drawings. 

He stuffed two blue notebooks on each side of the bag, then laid the last three on top side by side. Zipping everything up proved a daunting task, sweat forming on his brow, under his chin. When the zipper reached the very end of the bag, Lars sighed in relief, the weight lifted from his consciousness. James will be okay now. 

"What the _fuck?!_ "

Lars leapt back from the bed, hands lifted up to his chest in defense. James paid no attention to him. He stomped forward and yanked the camping bag's handle, lifting it off the bed.

"What the fuck did you do to my bag?" 

He stood there choking on his voice and his breath as James kneeled on the floor and ripped open the bag, staring at the three blue notebooks on top. 

Blue eyes glared up at him. 

Lars stuttered. "I... I was t-trying to help."

"The bag's going to fucking rip, you idiot!" James shoved his hands past the blue notebooks. He ripped out Ziplock packets of food and shook them. "I don't fucking need this shit! It's only for one goddamn fucking week!"

"I... I thought--"

The taxi cab beeped outside. James threw the bags down on top of the notebooks. "Fuck's sake, can't you get your nose out of my shit for once in your life? I've done this hunting shit before, time and time again, and I know how to pack, not you! Now I'm stuck lugging around all of this fucking shit in goddamn Siberia. _Thanks!_ "

The taxi cab beeped repeatedly, again and again. Lars stood there as James cursed zipping the bag up again, reddening his hands. 

James lugged the camping bag around his shoulders, snarling.

Lars reached a hand out.

"I'm sorry--"

"Whatever."

James stomped down the stairs. Lars's hand dropped to his side. 

The front door slammed closed. 

His green eyes watered. They glanced to the ground. 

James's favorite green scarf rested on the carpet. 

Lars snatched it up as he scrambled down the stairs, flying open the front door. "Wait! James! You forgot--"

James's cab sped away as Lars stood in their driveway holding the green scarf, the edges dragging on the concrete.

He shut down the house thereafter, out of custom. The curtains drawn; the windows shut; the doors locked. But he couldn't distract himself with movies and music like usual. He sat on the couch in the living room and stared at the blank television screen for hours, his hands twined in the green scarf, something he bought for James years ago on his first winter hunting trip.

At dusk Lars left the living room and moved upstairs. He curled up on James's side, holding James's pillow, still wearing James's robe. Everything still smelled like him. 

Tears pricked his eyes. He shouldn't have fucked with tradition. James knew what he was doing. He knew how to pack, how to prepare. And they had an argument. Why couldn't he leave the bag alone? Why couldn't he let James be in control? This was James's domain, not his. 

His fingers dug into the pillow. But he was only trying to help. James was being a dick. It was Siberia for crying out loud. Not Wisconsin, Louisiana, or Canada. Fucking Siberia. He was only trying to help. 

Lars sighed and buried his face into James's pillow.

It was just a week. Then James will be home. He will apologize for not asking James if he could help pack his bag for him. James will apologize for being a dick. They'll joke, laugh, make-up, kiss. James will show him his catch. Lars will cook it with him. They'll eat, relax, be together again... and it'll be okay. 

Lars closed his eyes and reached out to shut off the light. 

It'll be okay. 

Three days later, Lars received a phone call from Russian police. 

Twelve hours later, the press surrounded the house with reporters, cameramen, photographers and other crew, all pointing their microphones and equipment at the house like weapons. 

Lars made one phone call from his cell all the way to Seattle, before he turned off all his phones and unhooked the house one.

"Dad?" Lars peeked out the window, where flashing lights of cop cars and camera crew danced in the night. "I need you."

He waited downstairs in the living room all night, hugging James's pillow to his chest, dressed in James's robe. Even in the middle of the night, the news crews rumbled like tiny earthquakes waiting to explode.

The loud knock on his door startled Lars awake. He scrambled out of the couch, shaking all over as he opened the door and peeked over the edge. 

His father's worried expression eased Lars's anxieties. He stepped back, opening the door further, wincing as the crowd shouted and the cameras snapped. 

Torben slipped through. Lars leaned his forehead on the door as he shut and locked it. 

Warm arms gently wound over his waist, pulling him from the door. " _Jeg er her,_ " Torben whispered. _I'm here._

He cried for hours in his father's arms, whispering, whimpering in his mother tongue. They laid together on the couch, Torben holding him together as Lars felt his whole body unravel. The past twenty-four hours caused too much damage and weighed too much guilt on his mind and heart. In the safety of his father's arms, he let it all go.

When Lars calmed down, Torben quietly helped him from the couch to the bedroom. Lars kept a hand in James's pillow, while Torben kept an arm around his waist up the steps to the bed. 

Lars curled up around James's pillow on James's side of the bed. Torben tucked the sheets around him, kissing his forehead. 

"I'll get some ibuprofen. It'll help with the headache, put you to sleep."

Lars coughed, sniffled. "Tak."

Another kiss pressed to his forehead. Lars stared blankly ahead as Torben rummaged through the bathroom behind him.

He swallowed three pills, drank the entire glass of water Torben gave him. His father kissed his forehead again, ran his hands over Lars's hair like he did whenever Lars was upset as a child. 

"Rest now." 

Lars stared at the wall as Torben circled around the bed for the door. 

"I wish mom was here," Lars whispered. 

Torben smiled. "She is." He opened the door. "She's with James too."

The door gently shut. Lars clung hard to James's pillow.

"Mama... please protect him." 

He closed his eyes and dreamed of thankfully nothing. 

By the afternoon, hundreds of media vultures swarmed outside his home, waiting to strike down at the first sign of the kill they were waiting for. Lars closed the blinds and followed the scent of homemade food waiting downstairs.

Dishes his mother used to cook rested on the dinner table. Torben greeted him with a smile. 

"I thought you'd be hungry."

Lars finished half a plate. Torben sighed, his own plate clean. 

"I'm sorry," Lars whispered.

"It's fine. I'm glad you had some." He stood up. "At least there will be plenty of leftovers."

Lars weakly smiled. He watched his father pack all the food away.

"Dad?"

Torben looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the fridge. "Ja?"

"Call Kirk and tell him to do press duty."

Torben smiled. "He called me on my phone while you were asleep. He's already handling it."

Lars leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Thank God." He wiped his hands over his face. "I just don't have the strength right now to deal with them."

"Of course. That's why Kirk's been on top of this. He knew you needed the help."

"He's a great friend." Lars rubbed his eyes. "Heh. The only friend I have left, considering."

Torben slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Don't go down that route. You aren't in the right frame of mind."

Lars laughed. "Napster shit, Jason leaves, now James--" 

"Lars."

His father's voice brooked no arguments. His eyes said the same thing. But there was thick concern. A Father's concern and love.

Lars sighed. He rested his head in his hands, elbows planted on the table. His chest welled up like his eyes. 

Torben slid his arms around his son's shaking shoulders. 

"Tell me he's alive."

"He's alive. It's only been a day. He's still alive." Torben held his son tighter. "Cliff won't let him die. Your mother won't let him die. James's own mother and father won't let him die." He pressed his forehead into Lars's temple. "And you. He won't die because of you."

Something broke inside, in his chest and his mind, hearing his father's words. Guilt warred with all his emotions as Lars buried into his hands. His father helped him up and guided him all the way from the kitchen into bed, where he was tucked in like he was a little boy again.

This time, he dreamed a memory as a nightmare. James and him, the camping bag, the blue notebooks. James's anger. James in the snow. Falling into the snow. Lars unable to catch him, unable to stop him, the green scarf still in his hand. 

Torben anchored him as each day passed. He avoided the television, the windows, the doors. He heard to no radio, read no newspapers. His father became His Father again, protecting Lars from harm. 

He convinced Lars to take off James's robe and shower, keep up his hygiene, on the condition he allowed Lars to wear James's clothes. To distract him, Torben gave him books to read, since most music reminded him of James. The stories varied in genre, from science fiction to absurdist comedy; in time period, from Renaissance to modern day. Torben made sure to avoid romances. 

But the books weren't enough of a distraction. The facts haunted him between the pages. James left the cabin half-drunk on vodka. No one knew why. Some of his belongings stayed behind in the shack, including the fire starter kit, the compass and the map. He was dressed proper, albeit in the worst colors; dark browns blended too well with the trees. 

Lars looked at the green scarf. If James had taken it with him, he wouldn't blend in with the trees. He would stand out, be seen... rescued. 

By the end of the week, the reporters lessened in numbers outside his home, and Lars gave up the books for the scarf. 

Torben knocked on his locked door the next day. "Please come out. I made you something to eat."

James's robe smelled freshly washed, not like him anymore. Lars didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. 

"Lars? Please... you need to eat something."

He slipped on James's robe and tightened the sash.

"I know you want to be alone, but I need to know you're okay."

Lars's hands twisted in the green scarf.

"Just leave me alone dad."

Torben arrived at his door at mealtimes. Otherwise he was left alone. Torben never raised his voice, never pestered him. His calm demeanor annoyed him.

The sun rose and fell outside his window, telling Lars how much time had passed. How many days now James was gone. He never left the bed except for the bathroom; never showered, never cleaned himself up, never ate, never stopped wearing the robe, never let go of the scarf. 

Little by little, the media disappeared from his front yard. The cameras stopped rolling. The microphones retracted. The reporters left with the photographers, the editors, the police men. All realizing a dead story. All realizing a dead man.

The news gave up on the news. They stopped caring. Until something new developed, no one cared anymore. 

Lars stayed up all night. The shadows of his home formed ugly faces on the walls; the faces of the public, demanding for his blood, blaming him for the disappearance of James Hetfield. He ruined Napster, now he ruined James. It was all his fault. He never should've kissed James in '83, never should've touched James in '84. He should've left James alone, let him be. James was better off without him. James would still be here if it wasn't for him.

_You shouldn't have touched his bag. You shouldn't have angered him. He left you Lars. He left you here to fucking rot, to teach you a lesson. That's why he left the shack. That's why he's lost in Siberia. It's because of you. He wanted to get far away from you, and when you packed his bag like an idiot, a bag he already situated perfectly for himself, you ruined everything. Now he's gone, and you're alone. He's never coming back, and if he does, he won't come back to you. Because no one likes you. No one cares about you. The whole world hates you, James most of all. And you know why? You're a selfish two-faced pig-headed money-grabbing pathetic piece of dog shit who never deserved James. He's always been better than you. He's the one who has it all, the talent, the looks, and you just sucked the life out of him like everyone says you do to the band, to the metal scene. You should be privileged he let you anywhere near him, let alone have him touch you. Now you've lost it all. You lost your fans. You lost Jason. And now you've lost James. Because of you. It's all your fault Lars. It's all your fault._

The faces disappeared when the sun rose high enough in the sky to melt them down the walls. But he heard them in his head, saw them in his mind. And they were right. 

Torben knocked on his door. "Lars? I brought you some fruits and cheeses."

Lars stared at the ceiling. "Not hungry."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You haven't eaten in three days..."

"I'm fine, Torben."

"Have you bathed?"

"I will."

"I haven't heard any running water from your room."

"I'm fine."

"I know you're not."

Lars's hand clenched around the scarf. 

Torben sighed. "This isn't healthy. I've left you alone for three days. Not once have I seen you. I'm worried."

"Then go."

"What?"

Lars shut his eyes. "Just go then. I don't need you here."

"Lars..." Torben rattled the door knob. "Open the door."

"No."

"Open the door, Lars."

"It's my house. Get out."

"Don't be this way. You need help."

"I don't need anyone," he hissed through his teeth. _No one needs me._

Torben sighed again. "I tried."

The doorknob rattled hard. Fist pounded with gusto on the wood.

"Lars. It's Kirk."

His eyes snapped open. 

"Listen to me. I understand how you feel. But your dad and I are here to help you. I know we're coming up to almost two weeks since we heard any news about James and--"

Lars grabbed the nearest thing, a book on the nightstand, and threw it at the door. "FUCK OFF!"

"Lars!"

"I don't give a shit about James anymore!" He threw another item at the door. "I don't want any fucking news!" He threw another one. "That's all people care about, fucking headliners! That's all _they_ care about outside!"

The doorknob shook. Kirk pounded on the door. "Open this right now!"

Lars ignored him. He threw more things at the door blindly. "They don't give a fucking shit if James is alive or dead. All they care about is the next fucking thing to report about. Fuck, they probably even _want_ him dead-- it'd sell more, get more ratings. And what if he is, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do but _the fucking clean-up like I always fucking do?!_ "

"Dammit Lars, open the door right now, or I'm ramming it down!" 

"Go ahead! More fucking things for the whole world to talk about!" Lars wiped at his red face. "First they get the headline they want -- James Hetfield, 38 years old, found dead in Siberia. Whole world fucking mourns. Everyone cries over James. _Everyone_ wishes he was alive. There's a huge fucking celebration of his life at his funeral. His name lives on forever in his music. The world never forgets him." 

Kirk pounded harder the door. Lars stopped throwing things. He landed backwards onto the bed, sitting on the edge, staring ahead, bloodshot eyes wide open. 

"Then you know what happens? They get the other headlines from their favorite lapdog." His scratchy, raw voice lowered into a soft whisper. "Lars Ulrich, 37, suffers mental breakdown, sent to mental hospital. Lars Ulrich, 37, found in his bathroom, overdosed on drugs. Lars Ulrich, 37, dead."

More door pounding. The door creaked. " _Lars!_ "

"No one cares. He has a funeral. Barely anyone attends. Why should they anyway, right? He's the most hated man in rock 'n roll. Killed Napster, ruined his band, always was a crap drummer. Good thing he's dead too. He fucked up everything."

The door cracked at its edges. Kirk slammed the door harder.

Lars's bloodshot green eyes waver.

"I fucked up everything."

The door caved in with a loud bang. Kirk landed sideways on his shoulder. Torben scrambled in after him, right to the bed where Lars sat, still staring at the wall. 

"Jesus Christ," Kirk muttered, running his hands over Lars's wet face, through the beard coming in. "I didn't know..."

Torben hugged him from the other side. He said nothing. 

Lars's whole face crumbled. "I...I'm s-sorry." He bowed his neck, a hand flying to his mouth. 

Kirk touched his arm. "Lars..."

He sobbed hard into his hand. More spilled out uncontrollably, bubbling up from deep inside, welled up tight for too long. 

When he calmed down, Lars cooperated. He ate some bites of food, drank some water, showered, dressed in James's clothes, shaved. Kirk and Torben monitored him from far, still giving him his space, but no door separated them any longer. 

Lars walked downstairs with the two of them, feeling weak and pathetic. He sat with his father in the living room, curled up in his father's arms, his body as empty and numb as his mind. 

Kirk flanked the other side. He twined their hands together. "Look... I'm sorry I did that. I know you only wanted your dad here, but I had to do something when he told me you hadn't left the room in three days."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not okay. Nothing's--"

Torben gave Kirk a pointed look. He shook his head no.

Kirk sighed. "Okay. I... I don't know. Things are just... fucked."

Lars closed his eyes. "I'm sorry I dumped this on you."

"No! It's fine, really. I'm glad to help you."

"It's my responsibility."

"Lars--"

"It's my fault."

"It's not! You--" The ringtone to his cellphone cut Kirk off. He growled under his breath. "Goddammit, why can't these fucking assholes get a life..." He pushed off the couch, flipping open the cell as he walked clear out of the living room into the garage. "Hammett speaking, what the fuck do you want now?"

Lars felt awful. Kirk looked too stressed out for someone who regularly appeared calm and collected. He did this to him. 

Torben ran his fingers through Lars's hair. "What are you thinking, my son?"

Lars drifted his attention elsewhere. "How fucked up I am."

"Why?"

"Because it's all my fault. I caused all of this. Kirk's stress, your time wasted, me being a general ass to you, just like I've done..."

He trailed off. Tears burned his eyes. 

Torben pressed his forehead into Lars's temple. "Why do you believe this?"

"Because... James is—“

The garage door slammed wide open.

"He's alive!"

Lars snapped his head around to Kirk standing bug-eyed in the middle of the doorway, the phone still open in his hand. 

"I'm not shitting you. I've got Russian officers on the other line. They found him. I can get us a plane to Moscow fast. They're transporting him over to some hospital in the Siberia region, but fuck if I know how to say the name, who cares. Get dressed, get ready, let's go."

Whatever Lars found first in the closet ended up in his suitcase. He didn't care what he put. Torben packed his hygiene essentials, but Lars wasn't paying attention. 

James was alive. James was fucking alive. 

He scrambled down barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, his leather jacket in one hand, his socks in the other, the green scarf wound tight around his neck. 

Kirk grabbed his shoulders, stopping him at the base of the stairs. "You can't go to fucking Siberia like that!"

"It's okay, I helped pack his winter gear," Torben announced. 

Lars could barely stand still. "Do we have the plane ready?"

"Yeah, I booked us an emergency flight to Moscow out of SFO. But calm down bro. At least put your fucking shoes on." Kirk looked over his shoulder. "Does he have extra socks, Torben?"

"Multiple."

"How about long johns and some turtlenecks?"

"I took care of those too."

"And what about--"

"Who gives a fucking shit, let's go!" Lars pushed past Kirk for the front door.

“Get back here!" Kirk yanked him back by the collar of his shirt, steering him to the couch. "You still have _some_ reporters outside, and you know what they would do if they saw you running out the door shoeless and half-dressed?"

"I don't give a fuck!"

"You better because they'd smell blood and hunt us down worse because they'd see you and wonder why the fuck Lars Ulrich ran out the door-- unless the obvious thing happened and there was a development about James. You almost tipped them off, idiot!"

Lars's eyes widened. He slumped backwards into the couch, all the excitement, desperation and anxiety deflated and gone.

Kirk knelt down. He rested his hands on Lars's knees and squeezed hard. "I know you're excited. But you need to stay calm. Get dressed. Put on your shoes, wear an undershirt, eat a little something and we'll go."

He did what Kirk asked. Torben flanked his side, helped him out. Soon he felt ready, his nerves still shot, but his mind calm by the simple thought running constant in his mind: James was alive. 

On the plane Kirk and Torben squeezed each of his hands. Lars barely stayed still. He wanted to pace around the plane, yell at the pilot to go faster, call up Russian airspace so they could have clear skies on the way to Moscow. Instead he willed himself to sleep an hour, just to shut off his mind, stop it from going crazy. 

Russian media welcomed them with their flashing lights, camera snaps, roar of reporters as they left the plane. Word spread fast. They followed them to the private limo waiting on the airstrip; followed it all the way to another plane to take them into the heart of Siberia. 

Three hours later they landed in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia. Lars's anxiety returned full force. He thought only of James, his mind taking it out on his body. Kirk and Torben tried to touch him, but he was too jittery, too wired. He focused on his breathing to calm himself as they drove to the hospital in their limo. 

More flashing lights waited for them, more microphones aimed their way, more camers shoved into their faces. Military personnel kept them at bay as they exited the limo. Lars paid them no attention. He led the charge through the sea of vultures to the hospital's entrance.

A nurse greeted them. She pulled Lars's arm and pointed. "This way, down there. Last room." 

He raced down the hallway, his father and Kirk at his heels, his heart and head pounding in tandem. 

Doctors fluttered over a long body on the bed, covered in pounds of heavy wool, IV hanging, tubes everywhere, gas mask on, pumping oxygen, steady heart beeps from an ECG. Hunting clothes, dark brown like trees, surrounded the floor of the bed.

Pale blue skin, sick and scaly. Burned cheeks, red-purple fingers. Lips so chapped the skin peeled off in patches.

Blue eyes met his across the room. 

Lars's vision blurred as he stumbled forward to James laying there in all that whiteness. 

A hand on his shoulder. A doctor stopped him. 

"I'm sorry, but you can't--"

"N-N-Nooo..."

James's frostbitten hand reached out for him. It shook. 

Blue eyes pleaded for him, scared and frightened, like a lost little boy who was away from home for too long.

Lars looked into the doctor's eyes. "Please."

The doctor's eyes softened. He nodded and released his hand.

Behind him Kirk and Torben spoke to the hospital workers and the military officers. Around them the curtains closed, leaving him alone with James. 

Their eyes stayed on each other. James's breathing and the heart monitor filled in the silence. 

Lars stepped close to the edge of the bed.

He tentatively brushed his fingertips over the back of James's hand. 

So cold. 

James gazed up at him as Lars unravelled the green scarf around his neck. He gently wrapped it around James's neck, tucking it tight into his new warm wool clothes. 

His hands shook as they cupped the edge of James's cheeks, brushed the plastic of the oxygen mask. 

"I'm sorry James. I'm sorry I drove you away. Please... please don't leave me alone again. I know I made you leave. I shouldn't have touched your bag. I know it's my fault and that, that I deserve this. I, I didn't mean to argue, I was just worried. I don't like to make you mad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you. But please... please don't do this again. Please don't leave me again. I l-love you James. Just... p-please..."

James whole body trembled as his cold hands lifted up from the bed. 

"L-Larsss..."

His hands flew up, helping James press them into his cheeks like he knew he wanted. He pressed them hard so he could feel them, feel the cold, feel him alive.

Beneath the mask James's torn lips shook and his teeth chattered. His face scrunched up in such excruciating pain Lars hurt with him.

"N...Nooo... ah... I... I'm the s-sorry one."

Tears rolled down his pale blue cheeks.

"You... have... _nothing_... to feel... g-guilty about."

James smiled weakly underneath the mask.

"You s-saved me, baby."


	2. Part Two

Lars never left James's side. When the doctors and nurses returned to check up on James, he never moved aside. He couldn't. James's swollen hand latched onto his fingers, refusing to let him go.

Lars kept a hand on James in some way, on his head, his neck, his shoulder. The doctors and nurses had a job to do; he didn't want to block them from their work saving James. But he too couldn't let him go. He had to reassure himself and James that he was there, that James was alive, that this was real and they were going to be okay. 

The outside world stayed outside. Lars's world reduced to a hospital room. Kirk returned to his post guarding them from the press, communicating with James and Lars's respective families. Torben made his bed in a chair behind Lars, watching them both. 

James looked half-dead. The swelling reduced in the past 24 hours and his hands didn't feel as cold anymore. His body temperature went up. He couldn't really talk or move though.

"It's a miracle the helicopters found him when they did," one doctor said later on to Lars and Torben privately. "When the body reaches the state of severe hypothermia, the central nervous system shuts down, there's difficulty speaking, sluggish thinking, the pulse and respiration rates decrease and the major organs fail. This usually happens at around thirty degrees celcius. When he was found, his temperature had dropped to twenty-eight degrees celcius. Any minute longer left in the snow and he would have died."

Torben rested a hand on the small of Lars's back. "Will he be okay? Any lasting damage?"

"His dexterity and fine movements will be limited for some time due to the damage he sustained being in the snow for so long. The good news is that his swelling seems to be going down, and his frostbite was luckily not too severe. We won't need to cut off anything."

Lars collapsed backwards into a seat overwhelmed, his head in his hands. Images almost a decade old raced through his mind: twelve-foot flames, charred bubbling skin, another doctor telling him about nerve damage and never playing again. First fire, now ice.

His father's hand stayed on his back. "And the rehabilitation. How long will it last?"

"The physical rehabilitation relies on Mr. Hetfield's body. So far he's showing great signs of a good recovery. We'll be running neurological tests on him probably in the next few days, just to see if there was any brain damage. But seeing as he was able to talk a few hours after being rescued, I have high hopes he will have little to none at all. There is no question though he will need psychological help after an ordeal like this."

Lars lifted his head, his eyes puffy and red. "When can we go home?"

"I'd prefer to keep him here in the hospital for a few days, before he begins the journey back. I'd like for majority of the swelling to be gone, his dexterity somewhat functioning and a clear on all of his neurological tests. I understand you'd probably like to use your own doctors at home in California, and we can arrange a transfer over to one of the hospitals there. But for the time being, he needs to stay here."

"It's for James's safety," Torben whispered into his ear. "It's not forever."

Back in James's room Lars watched the nurses clean up, replace bandages, help James into a new set of warm clothes. When they left, blue eyes looked over Lars's shoulder. 

"Can we be a-alone?"

Torben smiled and nodded. "That's fine. I'll bring us some hot tea." He patted Lars's shoulder on his way out. 

James turned his head slowly on the pillows. His chapped lips were red and glossy from the medication; no more peeled, cracked skin hung off. His pale skin looked healthy; the blue tint faded away to pink. His cheeks were still burnt red around his eyes. The sunglasses had protected his eyes from major snow blindness at least. 

He weakly smiled. "I wish I could k-kiss you."

Lars gently weaved his fingers with James's on the bed. "It's okay."

Blue eyes softened. "I'm s-sorry--"

"No. Not yet." Lars lifted his hand to his lips, kissing the red fingers. "We'll talk about everything later."

"But--"

"Shh." Lars leaned forward onto James's chest. He planted his cheek in his spot like he hasn't in the longest two weeks of his life: the crook of James's neck, his nose pressing into the pulse, hearing and feeling his breathing and heartbeat beyond the machines. 

Their clasped hands rested over the rise and fall of James's stomach. James tilted his head down, so his chin pressed onto Lars's head. 

"I l-love you so much Lars," James whispered, his voice echoing in the mask. "More than you think..."

Lars squeezed their hands, kissed James's neck. "Jeg elsker også dig, min skat."

Two days later, James began rehabilitation. The doctors cleared the nurse to remove his oxygen mask. When they removed the plastic around his mouth, he snatched Lars's arm in his red hand.

"Wait."

He yanked down Lars with all his strength. Their lips met for the first time in two weeks. The slick medicine burned Lars's lips. But it felt wonderful. It felt like home.

The kiss lasted too short. Lars's tingling lips quivered. 

James squeezed his arm, his blue eyes soft. "Okay. I'm ready." 

In the weeks that passed, James pushed himself to a full recovery. Lars flipped between a decade earlier to now as he watched James painfully relearn how to walk, grip his hand, work his fingers, fight the pain. He saw himself stand there on the sidelines like he did years ago, except now he couldn't change his bandages, drive him to the doctor, help him with his exercises. With the fire Lars had to help. Now with the cold, Lars couldn't. The doctors and nurses had a job to do and James needed to do this for himself. 

But James never allowed Lars to stay behind. When the doctors said no, James forced them to say yes. He still felt useless when he watched James collapse, curse, stand up and try again. He felt helpless as he watched James take test after test, neurological to physical, from MRI to CAT to blood, pushing, always pushing to get better. 

"I feel like a burden," Lars confessed one night. "Back with Montreal, I felt I was actually doing something. You know? Now I feel like it's not enough."

James looked so much better now. No longer did he need to rely on the oxygen mask for help. He felt warmer, appeared healthier. It was only a matter of time before the doctors cleared them to leave Russia for home.

He laid on top of James like he had since the first day, his nose in James's neck, his cheek on James's chest, their hands together over James's stomach, James's chin on his head. 

Lars sighed. "I shouldn't have said that. I sound like a fucking pity party."

"Don't be."

James's voice sounded normal too. The familiar rumble vibrated against his body and Lars closed his eyes. He loved James's voice. 

"It's not about me though. You're the one who went to fucking hell."

"You suffered too."

"I..." Lars bit down on his lips. The phrase 'don't matter' floated in his mind. He breathed in James to calm himself. "I don't care. I'm sorry."

Their hands unraveled. James pushed Lars back to look into his eyes. Lars expected the worst: an admonishment, anger, resentment. 

Blue eyes gazed down at him, not judging, not angry. Warm hands cupped his cheeks. 

"Do you know how they found me?"

"You were burrowed in the snow... that it was a miracle they found you."

"That's what they found when they landed. That's not how they found me."

Lars looked down and away. "I don't want to know. All that matters is that you're alive--"

"Because of you."

He shut his eyes. The old guilt bubbled up. "I didn't save you--"

"Yes you did." James shook his head. "You _did_ save me." He rubbed his thumbs on Lars's cheeks. "Please. Look at me. Listen."

His green eyes gleamed as he looked up at James, and he gasped when he saw the same tears welled up in James's blue eyes.

"All those extra things you packed saved my life."

Lars gasped, his lips moving.

James shook his head. "No, please. I need to say this." He took a deep breath. "You saved me, Lars. All those extra things helped me. I rationed all the extra food and water, used the clothes as insulation since I left the sleeping bag and the firekit in the shack. And the blue notebooks... I wrote in them. All five of them. They kept me sane. I was able to keep track of the days with every entry I wrote. With the extra batteries you packed I could use the flashlight at night to write. And it's those notebooks they found... that's how they spotted me. I laid them all around me on the snow, kept one on me. The covers were so bright and the helicopter had been hovering low in my general area... if I didn't have them, they never would've found me in time." 

Lars shivered. "So, when you... when I came..."

"I meant what I said when I saw you again. You saved me."

Lars bowed his neck, curled his lips into his teeth, his cheeks red hot.

James tilted his chin up. His lips brushed over Lars's.

"You are my saving grace. My guiding light. Thank you for saving me. For never giving up. For never leaving me. I love you."

He descended his lips onto Lars with a gentle pressure, his thumbs pressed onto the corners to feel, not to bruise. His fingers spread open on Lars's cheeks, holding him, Lars's tears falling between the spaces.

James pulled him up into the bed so they rested side by side. He wound an arm around his waist, up his back, cradling Lars into the crook of his neck. Lars made his bed there like old times, eyelashes wet.

The next day, the doctors cleared James for a transfer to the University of San Francisco Hospital. Kirk prepared all the details for a smooth transition out of Russia into California. James spoke with his family members all waiting anxiously for him to return. Lars sat beside him with every phone call. 

Flying home was as nerve-wrecking flying here. He wanted out of Siberia, out of Russia, landing in California, seeing San Francisco. But it was different than before. Now he had James besides him, holding his hand, smiling at him, safe and sound. James was alive, healthier and here. They were okay. 

All of the news media outlets swarmed them when they landed. Kirk headed the pack, warded them off with the security. Lars sent him a grateful look, and Kirk winked back with a smirk. Together they entered the vehicle taking James to the hospital. 

Torben stayed outside with Lars as James's family members entered the new hospital room at UCSF, showering him with gifts, kisses, hugs and well wishes. 

"You know you're considered family," Torben whispered.

"Yeah, I know. I just think he needs some time with them, and that they need time with him. You know?"

"I understand." He wrapped an arm around Lars's shoulders. "Still. You shouldn't feel so insecure around them. They've known about you two for some time now."

"It's fine. Really."

Torben kissed his temple. "Okay. Let's get something to eat then. My treat, hm?"

They come back half an hour later with sandwiches from Togos across the street from the hospital. Down the hallway, James's oldest brother Chris peeked his head out of James's room. 

"Hey, where have you been? James wants you two in here!"

Lars blushed. Torben rose the sandwich bag. "Had to get a little something. We'll be right there."

James's eyes bugged out at the sight of the Togos bag as they entered the room. "Shit, is that real food in your hands?"

Dave laughed. "That bad, huh?" 

"You have no idea. I'd kill for a Wendy's."

Deanna waved Lars over. "Better get over with that bag before my brother goes to raid a McDonald's."

"Hey!"

They all broke out laughing. Lars smiled sheepish in the sea of James's family. He enjoyed crowds, loved family gatherings, but being surrounded by James's relatives, not his own, still unsettled him. They talked as boisterously loud as his own family, all engaged, happy, cracking dry jokes. 

James's hand grasped his wrist. "C'mere."

He pulled Lars to the bed, sitting him down besides him. Lars smiled, felt less nervous when James squeezed his hand. No one seemed perturbed by the sight, or angry, or disgusted. No one really seemed to pay attention. 

His father chatted animatedly with James's brother. James's relatives spoke to him like one of their own, spoke to himself the same way. Whatever transpired before meant nothing now. Things had changed. 

The nurses cleared out everyone for James's tests. They kissed and hugged both James and Lars goodbye. Torben went with them, something about sending them off. 

Lars shared a look with James as they left. He smiled as James kissed his knuckles. 

"I told them how you saved me," he whispered. "That finally woke them up."

As the days passed, James endured more tests and received more visitors. Old friends came in and wished him well, asked how he was doing, what he went through. And James explained in a few words what happened. 

He squeezed Lars's hand and smiled up at him. "He saved me."

It was overwhelming at first, a little embarrassing. Kirk had to put a statement up on the website from James. The fans clamored for a word from him, desperate to know he was okay. The media clawed for more information, desperate to exploit what was there. 

All he asked Kirk to put up was simple. "I'm alive, I'm recovering, I'm okay. You'll eventually learn what I mean when I say this, but believe me: Lars saved me."

Lars read the printed statement from Kirk in his hand and flushed from head to toe. He looked confused as he stared at James laying on the hospital bed. "Why did you say that?"

"It's the truth."

"But they don't need to know that. You could've told them you were okay, maybe told them a bit about what happened."

"But that is what happened."

Lars sighed, sitting down on the edge. "You opened up a huge can of worms, min skat."

"I don't care. They've know about us."

"But not... not so publicly."

"Whatever. They asked, I told." He slipped his hand into Lars's. "And I wanted them to know."

Lars squeezed his hand. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

James blue eyes hardened, his lips set into a thin line. "I've already been through hell more than once. I've stood on the edge of death too many times. Whatever the media throws my way, whatever the goddamn fans say, I don't give a fucking shit anymore. Fuck them."

Lars smiled. The Old James laid there on the bed. No longer cold, no longer near death. He looked healthy, determined, full of life. He looked like his old self. 

"Okay." 

James pulled Lars down to him, caught his lips in a tender kiss. He roamed his hands up his sides, down his back, wound his arms around him. Lars sighed into his neck, his hands on his chest, heard and felt his breathing, his heartbeat, all warm, no longer cold. 

Blue eyes stared at the ceiling with regret. He slid a hand up Lars's back to cup the back of his head. 

"Babe... there's something else I have to tell you."

When the doctors cleared James to leave the hospital two days later, Kirk placed another statement on the website, announcing it to the whole world. The news media ate it alive like the last one, all because of three words put together: James Hetfield, and rehab. 

Lars stood at the window, staring down at the media waiting outside the hospital with flashing lights and protruding microphones. 

James zipped up his suitcase behind him, dressed in the same outfit he wore the day he left for Siberia. He turned to Lars at the window.

"Lars. Come here."

"I can't."

"Please."

Lars leaned his hands on the windowsill. He rested his bowed head against the glass. 

James walked forward. He slid his hands up Lars's back, then down again. His arms tightened around Lars's waist, pulling Lars to him. Lips rested on Lars's neck, nose in his skin, breathing him in.

"I don't want to leave you hurt again," James whispered.

"You're leaving anyway."

James dragged his lips up Lars's neck to his ear. "I have to, baby. I told you why."

Lars lifted a hand from the windowsill to grasp onto one of James's arms around his waist. He held it tight, his fingers bruising James's skin. 

"I just got you back..."

James slid a hand up Lars's torso to his chin, turning Lars's face to him. 

"And you'll have me again." He let go of him, brushed his fingertips over Lars's cheek. "You'll have me forever. But I need to do this for both of us. I've fucked with Death for too long, babe. Been given too many second chances. I can't do this to myself anymore. To you. Not when you've been so good to me... that you saved me."

"But..."

"Shh." 

He cupped Lars's cheek, pulling him close. Their eyes closed as James pressed their lips together with a tenderness that left Lars breathless.

Lars's hand left on the windowsill trembled as he lifted it up and rested it over James's on his cheek. He tilted his head back, relaxed against James. His hand stopped bruising James's arm and folded over it. Their fingers met and twined together like the ones on his cheek. 

The black limo waited for James out in the back of the hospital. Torben stood at the door, ready to escort him to the airport, by James's request.

They kissed one last time, James's hands cupping his face. Lars willed himself to shed no tears. 

James thumbed the corners of his lips. "One last thing... do you remember those blue notebooks?"

Lars nodded. 

"I want you to read them."

Lars frowned. His eyebrows knitted together.

James pleaded with his eyes and his voice. "Look, I know it's in the past and we should move on, but I need you to read them." He pressed their foreheads together. "Just remember, no matter what you read... I love you."

Lars's hands slid into James's soft blond hair, cupping his head. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I promise."

He watched James go with his father by his side. His arms crossed over his chest, to stop himself from reaching out, from grabbing him. His feet planted into the ground; he willed himself not to move. 

Lars gasped as James took out of his jacket the green scarf and wrapped it around his neck. 

Their eyes met. James smiled. 

Torben closed the limo door. 

The camping bag sat next to the living room couch. Lars knelt down and zipped it open, finding it easier to do than before. Inside were the clothes he packed, empty ziplock bags, drained water bottles, the flashlight, some empty pens and pencils down to the eraser. 

His eyes focused on the five blue notebooks waiting on top. 

On each cover were numbers scratched in with pen. The first two were done by calm hands. Next two were etched by frantic ones. The last one... the number '5,' etched by the hands of a dying man. 

Lars gathered all five notebooks and brought them upstairs. He dumped them on the bed and left them there for the time being. His mind drifted to showering, eating, cleaning the house. He called up Kirk, called his father to make sure James boarded his plane okay. He spoke with the MetClub people, spoke with Kirk again, spoke with a few doctors. 

When his father showed up later on in the day, Lars handed the camping bag over to him.

"Take it to the dump." 

They cleaned the dishes together after dinner. Torben retired to the guest room while Lars walked up the steps to his room. 

The five notebooks waited for him, lined up in order on the edge of the bed.

He picked up the first one. 

_Russia's fucked up. Siberia's worse. It's like the fucking apocalypse in a goddamn snow storm. We set up our shit in the shack and there's absolutely nothing to fucking do but write in this goddamn blue notebook Lars insisted I bring. Fucking idiot. I won't even fill up this whole book. 150 pages a notebook? Who the fuck buys that? _

_Whatever. We've got vodka flowing, food on the fire, a hunt in the morning. This should be a good trip, a nice getaway._

The entries centered on hunting talk confused Lars. He didn't know what James spoke about. But he read on. He promised to read everything, every page, every word. 

Doodles lined the edges of pages. Stick figures, ugly faces, guns. Sketches of bears, sketches of the guys in the shack, sketches of the shack. 

_The bears aren't edible. Fucking great. I thought I was going to come home with pounds of bear meat for Lars and I, like the last time when I was in Canada. Fuck this shit. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Write lyrics? Fucking shit._

A few pages later, Lars cringed. He wanted to stop. But he read every word, every entry, even though it hurt. 

_That fucking bastard. I never should've left the bag upstairs. He always has to put his nose in shit that isn't his. I'm walking outside in the snow with a bunch of shit on me, things I don't fucking need. I'd dump them but I know Lars too fucking well. He'll check my things and see I threw them out and bitch at me. 'You know how long I spent packing your bag you son of a bitch' and all that. That's why I don't let him pack for me. I don't want to hear him fucking bitch. All he does is bitch and moan. Sometimes I want to slap the shit out of him. Stupid fucking shithead doesn't know when the fuck to shut up. I don't know why the fuck I bother with him._

The pages following had doodles and lyrics only. Lars wiped at his eyes, remembering what James told him. He loved him. He didn't mean what he said. But the words wounded him on a level too close to home, too close to his dark thoughts. 

By morning, Lars reached the halfway point in tears. 

_I'm lost. I'm fucking lost and it's all Lars's fault. All I could think about was him, what's waiting for me at home. Another fucking argument. I had to leave the shack and find a bear to kill, let it out. Maybe find a bird and shoot the life out of him. Or shoot a tree. Now I'm fucking lost and it's all his fault. If he didn't instigate shit all the time I wouldn't be in this goddamn mess._

_I keep going around in circles. The trees in front of me I've seen too many times before. To test this I left the vodka bottle I took from the shack next to the tree. I saw it again when I walked around twice. I have no idea what the fuck to do. I have no phone, no flare, no way of getting back. All I have are these goddamn stupid notebooks and a fucking bag too heavy to carry._

Torben knocked on his door. Lars's wet, red-rimmed eyes met his father's concerned gaze.

"Have you slept?"

Lars shook his head no.

He walked inside and calmly took the blue notebook from him, dog-earring the page. His arms wound tight around Lars's shoulders. 

Lars buried his face into his father's chest.

For three days Lars took many long breaks reading the first notebook. He never expected it to be so hard. All the spiteful words James threw at him, about him, wounded him deep inside. His guilt came out full force; his dark thoughts rang true. He was right. James was right. It was his fault. 

Towards the end of the week, Lars reached the ending pages of the first notebook. He could barely read anymore. How could James make him read this? Why would he ask him to do this? 

He turned the page to the last entry.

_It's been three days since I've written in this notebook, and I'm already at the end. I know how a rescue crew works. First I'm declared missing. Then for 24 hours to 36 hours, it's crucial they get any clue to find me. As of right now, that time window is over. Now they're looking for a dead man._

_I'm an idiot not bringing the firestarter kit. What did they say? Always prepare for the absolute worst, never leave anything behind. But the bag was so fucking heavy though. Why didn't I dump the notebooks then?_

_No, I need these. It's all I've got right now. Should I die, they'll find me one day with these notebooks._

_I'm a fucking idiot. I can't believe I got lost. I've done hunting trips for years all over North America. Why did I get cocky? Why didn't I pay more attention to our guide, telling us where the trails were? I deserve this. Reap what you sow and all that._

_It's my fault I'm here. My fault I'm stuck like this. It wasn't Lars's fault. Fuck, he was the smart one. I've got food and water to last me but who knows if they'll ever find me. What I've got is enough to last a week, but I don't know if I can stretch it to two. If I kill a bear I can't eat it. I haven't found any birds at all. I don't even know if they have venison all the way out here. I'm fucked._

_They have to find me eventually. My fame has to work in my favor. They won't rest until they find me. Lars won't rest until I'm found. I know him, he's a black dog. He won't give up on me. I hope._

He closed the first blue notebook. 

It rested on his lap, his hands on top. 

Lars tilted his head back into the pillows.

The second notebook consumed his attention for the second week. Torben encouraged him to take breaks, and he did. He had to. 

James filled the pages with drawings and doodles, random lyrics he came up with and lyrics of other songs. Some Lars recognized; others he didn't. 

For a couple pages he quoted songs Lars knew James loved. Johnny Cash, Tool, Waylon Jennings, Alice in Chains, Aerosmith, Thin Lizzy. He skipped the page with Led Zeppelin's Ten Years Gone at the top. 

Then he found Deep Purple lyrics, Motorhead, Diamond Head. He paused when he saw Oasis' Wonderwall written word by word. His eyes trailed down. At the end was a footnote. 

_Fucking Lars sung this too many times._

He smiled, heard it in James's voice. He read on. 

There were drawings of bridges and buildings, all of San Francisco, the trees in the distance where James was, the sky, the sun, their home in Tiburon, the countryside in the Central Valley, the south bay and its mountains and fields. 

Random entries popped up between drawings. Some a few lines long; some a whole page worth. 

Next to a drawing of the Golden Gate Bridge, James wrote: _I miss looking at this in the morning. I want to go sailing, water skiing, swimming._

Besides a doodle of two hands pressed together by their palms, James scribbled, _These are my mom's hands, from what I remember. She's praying for me. It's a stupid thought._

Two pairs of eyes took up one whole page with great detail, shadowing, shading, symmetry. James penned beneath them: _The most beautiful person in the world._

Lars's stared at eyes he saw in his own reflection every day. 

By the end of the second notebook, James switched from pen to pencil. _I'm running out of pens, but Lars packed me a lot of pencils and a sharper too. It'll be smarter to save the pens and use up the pencils._

_I re-rationed the food and water. I'm coming up on a week now. Six days starts tomorrow being out here, burrowed in the snow. I surrounded myself with the extra clothes Lars packed for insulation. The thing is I can't make myself too hot, else I'll sweat and that'll be bad for my hypothermia._

_I don't know what to do. I don't know if I'm ever going to be found. I can't walk around, I'll waste my energy and make myself sweat. I'm stuck here waiting. It's all my fault I'm here like this._

_I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I WANT TO GO HOME_

Lars's hands trembled as he shut the second blue notebook. 

Torben found him later on balled up on James's side, clinging to James's pillow.

The third notebook mimicked the second with drawings and lyrics in between entries. The difference was the entries themselves. There were more of those, less drawings, less lyrics. But these entries scared Lars. Every single one.

_I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry I was a horrible son to you. I hope when we see each other again you think I didn't treat you badly and that I came out okay. I never should've back-talked. I should've been a man of the house, not a stupid teenager. I should've..._

All of them spoke to someone, apologizing, a good chunk in the beginning dedicated to his mother and father. He felt so awkward reading these private thoughts. It no longer felt okay. But James insisted. He had to read everything, every word, from top to bottom, for all five. 

Lars sobbed into his pillow as he read James's apologies to his father. _I wish I could've stopped you when I was a kid from walking out that door. Even then I wish I could've been a better son to you and not treated you like shit. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you..._

He took many long breaks reading James's apologies to Cliff. _Sometimes I dream about you dude, you know that? It's fucking weird, I know, but I think sometimes you're actually talking to me, telling me what's up. I wonder if we'll meet up there. I'm sorry I wasn't a good friend to you while you were alive. I wish we could've talked more about shit outside of drinking and music and parties and girls and my insecurities about Lars. I really miss those times we just bullshitted for the fuck of it..._

There were apologies to Jason for pages. _It's my fault you left the band, I know that. I'm a dick for what I did to you. We were so cool, you and I, you know? We had a lot of things in common and I loved hanging out with you. And I knew you really worshiped me, and I don't know why I abused that with you. I don't know why I had to break you. I'm a fucking moron. I'm glad you left the band, that you told me off. I am a fucking asshole, you were right..._

He apologized profusely to Kirk as well. _For any time I called you a bad name, or made fun of your looks, or pushed you around, suppressed your music making like I did with Jason, stressed you out or made you want to ever quit the band because of how much of an asshole I was, I'm seriously sorry. You're like a brother to me Kirk. I love you bro. I didn't mean what I did, whatever I did. I mean, I know I did a lot, a shit ton to you, as much as I did to Jason. I'm sorry for that..._

Apologies to Bob, their managers Peter and Cliff, his childhood friends to his friends now, to Torben. Apologies to everyone who ever worked for the band, to everyone who ever helped the band become what it was. Apologies to the fans for worrying them, apologies to the world, apologies to God for doubting him, for not putting enough faith into him.

Lars couldn't breathe as he read the last entry. It was so simple, only a few lines, but they did more damage than anything else. 

_I'm sorry Lars. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry I loved you, and that you loved me. You always deserved better, and I deserve this._

_I'm sorry for everything. Everything._

_I love you. I'm sorry._

Lars threw the third notebook clear off the bed. It crashed into the wall, falling flat open onto its back. 

Torben consoled him again as he cried.


	3. Part Three

"I can't read anymore,” Lars said. “Please don't make me read anymore."

"Where are you at?" James asked.

"I got through the first three. I can't read anymore. Please, let me throw them away. They're no good."

It was four weeks into rehab. James was due home in another two. Lars stopped reading. He spent the last week doing anything but reading. He listened to music, watched television, enjoyed movies. The blue notebooks laid in the closet of their bedroom untouched. Lars couldn't bear to get close to them again, not after the first three.

James sighed. "I need you to read the last two."

"I can't. I know I promised, but I can't. Please understand."

"I do understand. I know it's hard on you. But you have to. I... I wrote the last book for you."

Lars shut his eyes. "I can't read it. I don't have your strength."

"Yes you do. You're the strongest person I know, Lars. You can do this. I'm right there with you. I'm in those words." He sighed again. "I know the first one was the hardest, because I was so fucking dumb--"

"You're not--"

"I was. To ever blame you for wanting to ensure my safety? Blaming you for my mistakes? I deserved--"

"You deserved _nothing!_ " Lars clung to the handle with both hands. "Stop blaming yourself! So what, we had a fucking argument! We always have arguments! That doesn't mean you deserved to be out there in the middle of _fucking_ Siberia for two _goddamn_ weeks suffering in the cold, thinking you were going to fucking _die!_ "

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't say it. Please. I don't want to hear it." Lars wiped at his face with the sleeve of his bathrobe. "I know rehab's ripping you apart and rearranging everything, so I know you're vulnerable right now, but James, please, stop blaming yourself. It's not your fault. It happened. You made a mistake. So did I. Shit happens."

James's voice wavered. "I know, but I have all this... this _guilt_ inside. I don't know what it's like not blaming myself."

"I know that. I know what it's like too. I blame myself too."

"But you actually take the responsibility for your actions. I go and hide."

"That doesn't give you a free ticket to beat yourself up." Lars released a long, shuddering breath. "Same with me for that matter."

"But you shouldn't have felt guilty at all. You're the one who saved me."

"You said it yourself James. I'm the one who takes the blame always. Always taking responsibility."

"But those were my actions—“

"And I instigated those actions with my actions."

"Lars..."

Lars heard another voice in the background, over the line. _"Okay Hetfield, time's up! It's almost curfew."_

_"One more minute?"_

_"Just one, but you need to wrap it up."_

_"I know."_ He sighed. "I'm sorry baby..."

“It's okay. I'm just glad I heard your voice again."

"I'm glad I heard you too."

"I love you James."

"I love you too Lars. Remember that. Always remember that."

James's voice stayed in his mind all night, kept him safe in his dreams like a warm blanket. It was still there by morning, when Lars walked to the closet and stared down at the stack of blue notebooks. At the top laid the last two notebooks, the fourth one first.

He scooped up the fourth notebook and walked to the bed.

The fourth mimicked its earlier cousins, entries with drawings. There were equal drawings mixed with entries this time, not either-or. Except the entries were memories, all memories of James's life, from the good to the bad.

Each illustration described a moment in a memory, or an important figure from a memory. His first bike, the first fishing rod his father bought him, a teacher he had a crush on in fifth grade.

He express regrets, shared old dreams, told good things and bad things. He described his first memory, his first accidents as a child, from wetting the bed to cutting his knee wide open on blades of grass.

Besides a picture of baseball bat, James told the time his father forbid him from sports. _That's when I learned what our religion was really about. I wasn't supposed to know about the body. We were just shells for our souls and I was going to float up into Heaven one day and leave my body behind to be with God. I hated it. I wanted to play baseball with my friends, but my father said no..._

As the pages went on, James's memories aged, from five years old to fifteen. _There was a girl I met in high school that I went steady with for a few years before the band started. She was really cute and we had a lot in common. I really liked her. The only thing is that she was cheating bitch. I caught her with this guy one time and I saw red, beat him up on the spot. When I got suspended she had left the school..._

He learned things about James he never knew. People James admired growing up, things about James's mom and dad, his brothers and sister, his family life, what influenced him. So much to his past he never asked about, or wanted to ask about. James stayed a mystery to him.

With the band memories he told touring stories Lars didn't know. _Cliff and I loved to pull this prank on the guys in Venom all the time when we were in Europe the first time..._

He smiled when James talked about his first memories playing music. _I knew then this was my life. This is what I wanted to do. Music was my therapy, my passion. I needed this. I had to do something with it. Not having music in my life was like not breathing..._

There was no mention of him anywhere as he read on. James talked about Cliff, Kirk, Jason and others, but never him. Like he was written out completely.

He cried the whole way through reading about Montreal from James's perspective. _All I thought when I laid there was Cliff. I was going to die. I couldn't control myself. I was going to die and I was going to see Cliff again..._

He sobbed through reading James's mother's death. _When she died, there was no funeral. We didn't mourn the body. What we had were vigils, celebratory wakes. It was such bullshit..._

He put the notebook down reading Cliff's death. _I knew I was in the freezing cold half-naked, but when I saw his legs, I couldn't feel anything..._

He put the notebook down again reading James's father's death. _I lost them both. I lost everyone. My mom, Cliff, and now my dad. Three people I loved were now gone. I was alone..._

At the end of the fifth week, Lars reached the end of the fourth notebook. His hands shook as he turned the page and read the last entry.

_I remember how he looked like. I wounded him. My first shot before I ever stepped foot here in Siberia._

_His eyes haunted me as I boarded the plane for Moscow. They never left me as I landed in Novosibirsk, stayed with me as we drove out far away from the city, far away from the town. I was already far away from home. Now I was far away from everyone. This is what I wanted. Complete isolation, immersion into what I found fun._

_I didn't need to kill that bear. I already made my kill. It was waiting for me back at home to clean and skin. He wouldn't have struggled like the bear. He would've welcomed my knives like a blessing._

_Hunters get falsely labeled as murderers. I never believed it until I murdered him._

_I was stupid, as stupid as I was leaving the shack. I snapped at him, dug my pistol right into his weak spot, where I knew it would hurt. And I purposefully pulled the trigger. I watched the life leave his eyes as I stood up and lugged the camping bag over my shoulder. I heard him take his last breath as I turned around and descended the stairs. No real hunter leaves their kill behind. No predator either._

_I gave the bear a dignified ending. I couldn't eat him, but I could skin him. They cheered me on as I worked diligently on his hide. We celebrated his life, giving him a toast to the afterlife, congratulating me on my first kill. Nostrovia._

_I treated that bear better than him._

_I regret what I did so much. And I'll never have the chance to apologize to him. I'll never be able to see him again. I wish I had never shot him like that, knowing it would hurt, knowing what I was doing. Now those eyes look at me even now, the saddest eyes in the whole world, betrayed and lifeless._

_I wrote all those memories without him, so he could know the real me, if he decides to read these notebooks. I hid so much from him over the years we've been together and not once did he pry anything from me. He accepted what I was, and I never did the same to him._

_He always kissed me goodbye before hunting trips, saying it was for good luck. I always thought it was stupid and told him so. He said he never wanted to give me ill will, bad vibes, before a trip. I didn't understand him though. Why worry? I wasn't going to die, and even if I did, I didn't fear death. It's a hunting trip with the boys, going off to Canada, Colorado, the mountains, wherever. Nothing would happen. Everything would be fine._

_Murphy's Law I guess. The one time you don't._

_I wish those eyes weren't my last memory of him. But I've run out of room here and one line isn't enough to convey what I should say._

He ran his fingers over the last sentences. They smudge the lead across the paper. The last rays of the sun fluttered across, making long shadows.

Lars looked up to the open closet.

The fifth blue notebook laid there for him.

Three long days passed before Lars had the courage to pick it up. The number '5' reflected in the sunlight, the pen marks jagged, frantic, squiggled and etched in so deep with desperation, like the last of one's strength and the last of one's breath.

He knew he had to read it. This was James's last week in rehab, the sixth week. Soon he'd be home. There was no way he was going to lie to James and tell him he read all five if he didn't. He couldn't do that to him.

Lars's hands shook as he held the notebook tightly, staring at the cover. The house was empty. Torben left for the day by his request. All the phones were off the hook, his own cell turned off. He needed the privacy, the isolation, for this. Once he started, he knew he wasn't going to stop.

He sat down on the bed, folding his legs criss-crossed. His back rested against the headboard, the pillows cushioning him.

The blue notebook rested on his lap.

Lars held his breath as he turned to the first page.

He gasped at the first words he read.

_Hello darling._

His hands flew to his mouth.

_I miss you so much. I'm hoping that as you read this you are comfortable and well. I don't want you to read this if you are feeling ill. I want you to read everything and remember it. I want you to feel everything I tell you. This one is all for you. Everything is for you._

A hand stayed over his mouth as he read on, page after page, soaking up every word James wrote to him. His tears fell like never before, relentlessly falling over his fingers, down his cheeks, pooling at his chin.

Every entry was a letter. _Hello Lars. Hi Lars. Hey baby. Babe. Darling. Lars. My Lars._

Every word, every phrase, every page was to him. Everything, just like James promised.

There were moments shared. _At sunrise I saw rainbows light up the sky. It was like a hand rippling through colored water above me until everything turned blue. I wanted to reach up and touch it, but I couldn't stretch my fingers that high..._

Memories were recollected in such detail for pages and pages. _Do you remember our first time? How I touched you and neither of us knew what we were doing? Do you remember how it felt? I remember every minute of it. I thought of it today. The image of you laid out beneath me with those eyes. I was afraid. So were you. We were crossing a line where we could lose each other forever. But we risked it..._

He talked to Lars like he was there with him. _Right now the sun falls from the sky and the night will choke me until morning. But I do not think of the cold. I think of you, of us in our bed. Touching you. Making love to you. Hearing your giggles and moans. Smelling your scent..._

He shared images, stories, everything to him. _I have something to confess. There is something about you I love the most. I love it when you're aroused. You are at your most beautiful when you are knee-deep in want. The way your eyes darken, how your lips redden and swell, that pink blush blossoming from your cheeks to your chest. How you moan for me, begging before I even do anything. You open yourself up to me like a sacrifice to a god, and I am not worthy of you. But I miss it so much..._

Page after page, letter after letter, James worshiped him in the words and the images expressed.

How he loved him. _Of every piece of you I loved to kiss, I will always remember how I kissed you, how you responded to me. How I'd lay my hands on your hips and pull you close so our chests touched. I did that so I could feel your breathing as well as hear it, taste it on my tongue..._

When he loved him. _Back in '88 you tried barbecuing and charred all the steaks because you were determined to get it right. Hilariously you were good at cooking the hot dogs, as long as it was in the oven. But you never gave up. You always tried..._

Where he loved him. _Montreal. You never left my side. You never complained. Cleaned my bandages, went with me to the meetings with the doctors. I was a fucking dick most of the time, stuck in my depression, and you never once left me..._

Why he loved him. _Your eyes, your lips, your giggle. The way you selflessly are there for all of us always, without fault, without complaining. How you're always there for me even when I fuck up so bad and think no one will come to my side. When I stumble along trying to avoid shit, you bring whatever I feel out of me. You don't make me afraid of feelings, because you know me so well. You bring me out of my shell and never make me feel self-conscious or weak. You show me it's okay to be me. And it was okay, as long as I had you to remind me..._

The last entries were the hardest things Lars ever read in this entire life. The writing looked more like chicken scratch. His hypothermia must've been out of control by then.

He stopped at the entry right before the end, the page covered in wrinkled drops. 

_I drank the vodka bottle. All of it. I ran out of food and water. I almost cut a piece of my arm to eat. That would've been better than the vodka._

_I'm a pathetic piece of shit. Why did I take the vodka bottle? Why didn't I grab more water? It's because I'm always about alcohol. Alcoholica. James Hetfield always has to drink. He's the frontman of Metallica. Cheers buddy, have a drink to the end of your life._

_I'm weak. I've always been weak. That's why I drank the bottle. I'm not going to make it anyway. I'll never leave here. They'll never find me. I've been staring at that bottle for days now, thinking about chugging it down, but I knew if I did I'd be poisoning myself. I'm already weak in the body, I can't make myself worse. But I'm weak in general. I'm a weak person. Why not drink it? Why not get it over with? Might as well._

_So I drank it all to the last drop. I got sick. I hate myself for it. I hate what I did. I'm a fucking weak bastard. I deserve everything. It's all my fault. Weak die, strong live. Assholes die, good people live. I'm not good. I'm horrible. I'm disgusting. I'm living by the bottle and dying by the bottle, just like the good drunk I am._

_I'm sorry you're reading this, I promised not to say anything like this. This was supposed to be a happy ending, not sad. I've already given you enough sad memories._

The writing slopped as he read on, the remnants of tears having smudged the words. 

_I'm almost at the end Lars. I never thought I'd fill up all five notebooks. I can't believe it's almost over._

_I want you to know I never, ever meant to hurt you with what I wrote. If you read them and you are reading this, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Don't mourn if you're reading this because I was found dead. And if you do mourn, please not for long. I never liked seeing you cry._

_I miss you so much Lars. I want to hold you again. I want to kiss you again. I want to make love to you and never leave our bed. You're all I ever wanted and I hate that it took me sitting in the cold at night in Siberia, holding a flashlight in one hand and a pen in the other, to realize you're all I ever truly needed in my life._

The image burned in his mind, clenched his heart and struck it stiff. His James burrowed in the snow, holding the flashlight, holding the pen, hunched over in his lap, trying not to let the cold win. Frostbitten, hypothermic, lips peeled, teeth chattering, hoping the light didn't go out, the pen didn't loose ink before he could finish his words.

He could barely read James's handwriting anymore. The words blurred together, sketched across the paper like chicken scratch. But Lars made out what he was saying, what he was repeating over and over like a prayer, like a mantra, to him.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I miss you, I want to go home, I want to be with you, I'm sorry, I love you, I miss you, I want to go home, I want to be with you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you_

Lars tilted his head back, bumping it into the headboard. It was nightfall now. His father would be home soon with dinner most likely. He couldn't take anymore. His body, mind, heart and soul couldn't take anymore. But there was still another page to turn, another entry to read.

He took a moment to wipe at his face with the sleeves of his bathrobe. He sniffled, clearing his nose of all the snot, his eyes of all the tears. He felt dizzy, weak, red-faced, heavy-hearted. He could barely breathe.

His breathing erratic like his heartbeat, Lars pushed his hand across the page and turned it to the last entry.

Two pages laid before him, one completely full, the other blank and empty.

_As I write this, I am not here alone in the blinding snow with the wind turning my fingers into ice. There is no Russia in my mind, no winter cold. I am home in our bed laying next to you._

_As you read this, you are not alone holding a blue notebook. You are holding me. I am there with you, holding you back just the way you like, with my arms embracing your naked torso, my lips dragging across your shoulder, my palms flat on your back. I sigh, breathe, embrace all that is you._

_I can feel you now Lars. I can feel you cupping the curves of my shoulders, your lips kissing that spot on my neck claimed by you, your nose smudged into the skin, your cheek pressed into my collarbones. You sigh, breathe, embrace all that is me._

_We don't talk when we do this. We don't have to. I know what you feel by feeling you. You do the same with me. We can predict each others words like our movements. Together in symmetrical passion like a tango, we are safe in each others arms, wanted and special, two halves of a whole clicked as one._

_In here I bury my heart. Take it with you, so we never part again._

Lars closed the last notebook with a reverence missing earlier.

He slid down the headboard, pressing the notebook gently to his chest, over his heart.

His head tilted back onto the pillows as he closed his eyes, lips parted, cheeks wet.

The warmth of James's heart rested over his own.

Two halves clicked as one.

Three days later, James returned home from rehab. He arrived a little past lunchtime, dressed in blue jeans, a light blue worker shirt and black-rimmed glasses Lars hadn't seen him wear in sometime.

James fidgeted around, all jittery and awkward standing there on the front porch. He shifted his feet around holding his suitcase. Lars saw the same seventeen-year-old punk in front of him all over again, the western villain with no past and no name. But now he was his Eastwood, a raw turkey, open-hearted Eastwood.

Blue eyes gazed at him with a clarity absent for much too long and a peace Lars never saw before.

James sheepishly smiled. "Hi babe."

Lars smiled back. He stepped forward with open arms. "Welcome home."

The small group of reporters outside their house snapped pictures of their embrace. Lars paid no attention to them. He slid his arms around the body of the man he waited too long to hold again, to smell again, to touch again.

James squeezed him tight in his arms, pressing them close. "I missed you so much."

"Me too, min skat." Lars leaned up and kissed his cheek as the flashing lights went off. Behind James's back he flipped them off, chuckling. "C'mon, let's go inside."

"When do you think they'll be gone?" James asked as they shut the door.

"I'm sure Brittany Spears is due for another disaster."

The echo of James's laughter filled in the empty void Lars felt the entire time James was gone. The house finally felt like a home again.

Torben served the three of them grilled cheese sandwiches and green salads. James and Lars sat chair-by-chair, holding each others hands when they weren't eating. They shared glances, jokes, smiles. They laughed and touched, kissed and embraced. It felt so normal, at peace.

They shared the duty of cleaning the dishes and pans when Torben walked into the kitchen with his suitcase.

"Dad?"

"I think it's time for me to head back. Molly's probably worried about me."

"No Dad, please." Lars dropped the soap and sponge, shaking out his hands. "Stay."

"Yes, please stay," James followed, releasing the pan. He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel. "You're welcome here."

"Oh, I know that I am." He opened his arms to his son, holding him like he did the entire time, his arms around his shoulders. "But you two need this time to heal. I know you don't see me as a burden, but this is something you two must deal with alone."

They hugged Torben one after the other, escorting him to his taxi waiting outside. He kissed his son's forehead one last time, then embraced James tightly.

"I'm so glad you are back," he whispered, patting James's shoulder. "Take care of my son for me, hm?"

James smiled. "Always."

The rest of the afternoon they spent together having a movie marathon in the living room cuddled up on the couch. They switched off, Lars choosing The Princess Bride first, then James with Easy Rider. At the end they chose an old classic they both loved, Young Frankenstein, while eating pizza for dinner.

Lars showered first as James unpacked his belongings, settling back in again. He walked out dripping wet, toweling himself down.

"Hey James, is my robe in the..."

He looked at the closet, where James stood, staring down at the pile of blue notebooks.

Curious blue eyes glanced up. "There's only four here..."

Lars diverted his attention to the nightstand. He sighed, tying the towel around his waist as he walked over.

He pulled out the last notebook hidden inside the drawer and pressed it into his wet naked chest.

"I kept it near me," he whispered.

Warm hands cupped his wet elbows. James's chest pressed against his, the notebook caught between them.

Lars meekly looked up.

James smiled. "You read them all."

He nodded.

James slid his hand up Lars's wet arm to touch the blue notebook between them.

"Every word?"

Lars nodded again. "Everything."

His hand flattened over the middle of the blue notebook as he leaned down and kissed Lars's lips.

"Thank you."

Lars returned the blue notebook back to its place in the nightstand. He towel-dried himself, slipped on his sleeping shorts and waited in bed for James from his shower.

The question burned on his lips when James emerged running a towel through his hair. He watched James from the bed standing naked in front of the dresser fishing around for his favorite underwear and pajama pants.

His hands twisted in the blue sheets wrinkled in his lap.

"James?"

"Mm, yes babe?"

"About the last notebook..."

"Yes?"

Lars looked away as James uncovered his briefs and pants from the dresser. His hands fidgeted in the sheets, teeth sunken into his bottom lip.

"Shit... I promised not to ask this. I mean, I don't want to bring up anything bad you might have with the notebooks. You went through so much... but I just--"

"The last page, right?"

His head jerked up. James finished slipping on his pajama pants.

"Uh, yeah."

James smiled. He walked over to Lars, all the lights in the room off except the one on the nightstand.

The bed dipped as he sat next to him, their eyes locked. His hand cupped Lars's cheek, like slipping on an old glove.

"I left it blank on purpose."

Lars's green eyes clouded over with confusion.

James rubbed his thumb underneath one.

"I refused to say goodbye."

Blue eyes leaned in as green eyes trembled. Noses brushed.

"As long as that page was empty... we didn't have an end."

Soft lips ghosted whisper close. Warm breath caught between their lips, bouncing back like a safety net.

Open, clear blue eyes looked at green eyes pooled with tears at the edges.

Their eyes closed one after the other as they kissed.

Warm. So warm.

Together they fell backwards onto the bed. James covered Lars with his body and the blankets.

Home.

Finally home.

James shut off the light.


	4. Epilogue

The bag was useless. Inside empty Ziplock bags and water bottles laid on top of useless extra ammunition and batteries. Clothes packed around James like the snow, but the burrow wasn't a suitable home. 

The sun beat down on him like the cold. His glasses protected him from blindness but it wasn't enough. The burn marks on his cheeks, the shallowness of his breath, the weakening of his heart proved he wasn't strong enough. 

He still tasted vodka on his lips.

James' teeth chattered. He felt heavy everywhere.

The empty vodka bottle laid beside him. He wasn't strong enough to resist. There wasn't any food or water left. All he had was the bottle, still cold from the snow, but never frozen. The vodka was stronger than him. Nostrovia. 

His hands hurt the most. All the writing saved his mind but not his body. He had to take off the gloves to keep a grip on the pen. Now they were swollen red and purple from bad frostbite. 

It was hard to stay awake. His body told him to sleep; his mind screamed not to. If he did, he wasn't going to wake up. But it hurt. He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to dream, wanted to see Lars smiling at him and imagine them locked away in their room inside the comfort of their bed, finally warm, finally safe...

James sobbed.

He was never going home again. He was never going home. 

Every blue notebook Lars packed for him circled around his burrow, filled up with his words. One stayed in his arms, pressed close to his chest, his numb hands clutching it hard. His heart waited in this one for Lars to uncover should he die here today, tonight, tomorrow. It was the least he could do. 

Time stretched too long in this place. He knew Death was there, waiting for him. Death gave him so many chances to fix himself. But Death lost patience. God lost patience. And James suffered the consequences of his actions, like he deserved. 

The world must've given up hope by now. After 36 hours, the search crews looked for a body, not a man. He stopped being an important case days ago. Now he's a dead man. He's not supposed to be alive; he's supposed to be dead. He's supposed to die. 

He just wanted to die. Let Death take him finally. Let God judge him. He was weak. Drunk, sick, weak, foolish, dumb, rude, an asshole to everyone he ever knew and loved...

Hot tears hurt his frostbitten cheeks. 

James clutched the fifth notebook tighter. 

Lars must've given up hope like the others. He wouldn't blame him. He never deserved him anyway.

He just wanted to die. Move on. Be at peace. See his mother and father again. See Cliff again. 

Weak die; strong survive. Assholes die; good people survive. 

_God let me die._

James stopped crying hours later. It hurt too much to cry. 

Above him the blue sky fluxed in and out with white. His glasses laid beside him, buried in the snow like the vodka bottle. There was no need for protection anymore. 

Never had James seen a bluer sky. No clouds, only sunlight on snow bouncing up into an empty blanket above. 

It was beautiful. 

He dozed in and out of consciousness, his head tilted to the blue sky. He didn't care about staying awake. 

Behind the darkness of his lids Lars looked up at him underneath blue sheets, rolled onto his side, arm tucked under the pillow. 

James' breathing shallowed.

Green eyes shined. Lars reached for him.

He felt sluggish. 

Lars was warm. 

It hurt to keep his eyes open. The blue sky faded into pure whiteness, like the snow around him. 

And then he heard it. The sound of beating wings. 

Powerful gusts of wind kicked up snow around him. James couldn't see, but he heard them. They touched his body, grabbed his arms and legs, pulled him up from the snow into the air. They whispered words in a language James didn't understand. But their voices reassured him he was okay. It was okay. It was over. 

James was tired.

He looked up above. 

The sunlight no longer blinded him; it embraced him. 

The hands lifted him higher.

It was beautiful. 

James smiled, at peace. 

_Lars..._

He closed his eyes.

The notebook slipped from his hands. 

"When I woke up again I was in a helicopter landing in Novosibirsk. My temperature had dropped way too low. It was like, 80 degrees or something. And the body can shut down with a temperature like that."

Steffan, editor of their fan club magazine, shook his head in awe. "My God... you were so lucky. It was a miracle they found you."

"Yeah, definitely. I was in the beginning stages of severe hypothermia when they found me. Had the helicopter not swooped down so low when they made that pass, they probably would've missed me. I was that close to death."

Steffan nodded, his eyes glancing away to type on his laptop. They sat in the kitchen of the house across from each other, a tape recorder between them.

James sipped his mint tea. He glanced over to the fridge calendar. March 2002. Two dates were circled in red: today and today two weeks from now. James read the words: Back in the Studio. 

"How did they find you?"

"They saw the blue notebooks surrounding me in the snow. Lars had packed them for me. My clothing matched the forest too well, so they kept missing me. But the helicopter came low enough that time to see the blue notebooks." James sighed. "That's why I said what I said on the website."

Steffan stopped typing. He looked up. "About Lars saving you?"

"Yes."

Lars hands shook as he closed the latest issue of So What magazine and rested it beside him on the bed. 

James enfolded Lars tight in his arms. He kissed his temple. "I know you didn't want me to do an interview... but I had to. Our fans deserved   
it."

Lars sighed, heavy with emotion. "No, I'm okay with that. It's your story to tell, min skat. It... it just hurt reading. Hearing it all from your perspective."

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't be. I'm okay with it." He tucked his head underneath James' chin, his cheek over James' heart. " _Jeg elsker dig._ "

They made love the night before their return to the studio. It was the first time they had done this since Siberia. Their hands shook as they removed clothes, gasped when they touched. Too much time had passed since they tasted each others moans. 

James pressed himself onto Lars like he waited so long to do. He felt every moan, every gasp, every whimper. He engraved this into his memory, so he'd never forget as long as he lived. So he'd never doubt Lars or himself ever again. 

With his hands and mouth alone, he brought Lars to the peak of perfection, to the state of pure beauty, what he dreamt of in the snow almost a year ago.

Lars gazed up at him knee deep in want, cheeks blossoming rosy red, flesh goosepimpled, soft thighs parted like softer lips.

"Please..."

He pressed his hands onto Lars' face. His lips soon followed. 

So warm. 

They kissed as James slid home. 

Months later, the album almost finished and a tour underway, James watched Lars walk up the steps to the attic, carrying the five blue notebooks. He wanted to seal them away for good; Lars wanted at least the fifth near.

"You don't need that book anymore," James reasoned. He grazed the tips of their noses together. "They're apart of me. If it's the words you want, I'll say them every day of our lives. I'll do anything for you. But you don't need it. I'm alive. I'm here. It's time to move on."

James peeked up inside the attic as discreet as possible. Lars didn't notice him. He kneeled on the floor and placed the notebooks one by one inside a brown treasure chest. 

His hands flattened on the last one, the fifth. Fingers drummed on the surface. 

He watched Lars open up the fifth notebook all the way to the last page. His fingers skipped over the words. 

Blue eyes narrowed as Lars pulled out a pen from his back pocket and scribbled down into the last page. 

James stepped as quiet as he could back down the latter and counted to ten. Each step he took up the wooden stairs was louder than before, the squeaks and groans alerting Lars to his presence. 

Lars smiled at him over his shoulder, the treasure chest now closed. "Lunch all ready?"

"Yep, peanut butter and jelly. Grape for you, strawberry for me, honey for your dad." He folded his arms on the floor. "When's he supposed to be here?"

Lars glanced at his watch. "Hm, soon I guess. I'll go phone him and see where he is, okay?"

He stepped down so Lars could pass. Their lips met like their fingers and their eyes for a fleeting kiss, a fleeting touch, a fleeting glance.

James pretended to draw up the stairs as Lars headed down to the kitchen. Once he was out of hearing distance, James drew them back down and walked up into the attic. 

He kneeled down onto the floor and opened the treasure chest. The fifth blue notebook rested on top. He opened it like he hadn't in a year's time and flipped all the way to the end.

On the last blank page, written on the very last line, Lars wrote his peace.

_I will never leave you. Because in here, I bury my heart with you. Forever._

He lifted the notebook to his lips and kissed the words.

James sealed the treasure chest away.


End file.
